Relentless Remorseless
by Nic Neptune
Summary: History repeats itself ... quite literally. As Hecketty Broomhead tries to bring about the downfall of Cackle's Academy and its residents, Constance's life hangs in the balance as she faces the demons of nearly twenty years. While she relives her darkest days, it is up to Mildred Hubble to stop dark-dark forces from consuming the academy, her friends, her teachers and their souls.
1. Dreams

_**I've had this idea for a few months now but haven't quite been able to get it to take off. I really hope you enjoy this and thank you in advance for reading. :D Reviews would ensue my eternal gratitude to you!**_

**Dedicated to NCD simply because she is 1. Awesome, 2. An inspiration not only in literature but in life and 3. The best friend one could ask for.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Worst Witch. The characters, settings and otherwise are the property of Jill Murphy and the creators of the TV adaptation of the Worst Witch**.

_p.s. This is set during Mildred and Co.'s fourth year._

**Chapter 1:  
Dreams**

Constance Hardbroom decided that she would try to get up that morning.

The only thing possible for her was the impossible. She could not write, she could scarcely think and if she lost her ability to read then it seemed that everything would be over.

Her last school friend was dead. 'One of the three Witches' she was known as, even though the three had not been united together in nearly twenty years. The Witch that had died was called Helen and she was Constance's youngest friend. She had been a dear, people used to say. She was the most popular of the three. By far the most outgoing, and, all in all, a rather 'fetching' young woman. A beauty! A lot nicer than her two friends! A pretty face but those teeth do nothing for her. She failed to live to an old age - dying at a mere thirty-four years - but, taking into account the life she lived and the friends she had, she lived a full and rich life. She died with the grace and experience of an old wretch.

It was too hot. The sun penetrated the thin panes of glass (for teachers' rooms had windows) and illuminated the room with painful clarity. Grains of dust, like floating memories, lingered around the bed, the walls, the books and everything that was within sight. The stone ceiling seemed to shine to welcome the dawning day, but, if Constance was to be truly honest with herself, this day was not welcome. She had a funeral to attend and Constance hated funerals. Not just because she was to mourn her last living friend but because she wasn't a people person. What bother! Shaking hands with people one has never met in one's life, pretending to feel sorry for them and praising the dead in the way one never would when the dead were alive. It never failed to amuse Constance how popular people became when they were dead. They suddenly became these wonderful people - their faults became harmless and their eccentricities became trendy - oh yes, the way he used to grab ladys' backsides! - adorable! What lark! Constance was the only one in the room to shake her head and try to find more appropriate conversation.

She arched her back and stretched her aching bones. She wanted to lie there forever. The funeral bak'd meats were to be her last supper as far as she was concerned. She had done some good in her recent years, having looked after two of her invalid friends over her summer holidays for many years, and now the world was laughing at her. That bright ceiling mocking her and that ray of light offering an easy passage to heaven. It was all too easy! A single second to oblivion or another possible thirty, forty, fifty years of endless torment. It all seemed ridiculous! She had a choice - lie in bed or face the day - but Constance didn't feel like either. In fact, she didn't feel like anything.

Her tummy rumbling announced that it was her usual time to get up. Oh, it seemed like such an effort! It should have been easy to lie there … lie … lie .. lie, but it was harder than breathing. She grew restless. Her legs jerked and her head felt like an inferno was brewing inside. Burning - her shoulders, her back, behind her eyes - so badly that she wanted to fall beneath the surface of an aquatic heaven and let the dense substance consumer her. She could not lie there but she could not get up. Like getting dealt with a hand of two jokers, she had a choice, albeit not ideal, but still a choice. The bed was suffocating her. The shadows of her dream catcher spread about her bed sheet like the strands of a spider's web. She was constrained but she could not stay there.

Wiping the sweat from her shiny temples, she caught the blanket and flung it halfway down her body. It was a start. Nothing more. Nothing less. The dusty specks of memories rushed in the masses like shooting stars on a clear night. They were like little maniacs, one memory killing off another. The mass continued to grow and grow as she lay beneath it, watching nonchalantly. Memories! Like wedding ants! Killing how life was then or what one remembers for something new. The world was sick and people were not much better. Like a war, up there, killing from left to right in a sweep of death. Killing for peace of mind. What a thing! A myth of the medical world - a psychological trap! Peace of mind is purposelessness.

Constance was tired and she was no longer able to lie in bed for the morning. She had so much to do. She closed her eyes but her head felt like it would burst with pent up energy. To haul herself up seemed less appealing than climbing the volcanoes of Mars, yet to linger meant to burn. She had to move; and move she did, as she flung her legs over the side of the bed, so that her back remained flat upon the bed and her long, slender legs sprawled all over the ground. She pulled herself up and was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window at the blindingly white sun. It was still low but the sky was now blue - morning had broken. What a morning! Glorious! The birds were twittering merrily and many butterflies perched from leaf to leaf. There was a light breeze - cool, not cold - and everything was bright and gay. Constance thought of heaven, and indeed, that's where her mind dwelled that morning.

A look at the clock told her it was almost seven. The funeral was at twelve so she would have to get ready. She sat before her dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. She had gotten old. Her eyes were still the deep brown they always were but the light had extinguished years ago. Her once-sleek face was beginning to fold and her mouth was down-turning - whether through age or experience, she knew not - and her eyes were narrowed under the constant strain of suspicion. Her mane of black hair was as long as always but split ends and neglect made it lose its chic. She never cared much what she looked like after Witch Training College; sure, she kept herself tidy but it was little effort for a woman of her standards. When she was young, she wanted to look good. Now she didn't care. Though she always liked Helen. She would make an effort for Helen.

She picked up her hairbrush and began to count one-hundred strokes. One…two…three…and she chuckled. She remembered how Colin Moore used to tease her over the amount of time she spent tending to her hair. He was a man, he could never understand, she thought, or maybe it was just his personality. She smiled at the memory of Colin. She thought of him often but rarely about him. She remembered how he looked and what they did together but rarely about what he was, or the way he would never fix his hair or how he used to wear his bow tie loosely. Colin Moore was most easily remembered by the things he would say he would do rather than the things he did. He was never a particularly remarkable fellow; he had no accomplishments in any particular skill - he laughed at the notion - but he had those eyes. Those gamey eyes. They always smiled, said she aloud, looking into her own orbs. All they had seen. So many things she would never see again. If eyes could talk, she wondered, what would they tell her? Eyes opened to new light and took in everything. They never missed a thing, so how could she not remember? So many things, little things, that seemed distant. My eyes are the only things that haven't changed, she remarked, wiping her hair to the side like a curtain. The only thing that connects us. My bones, my flesh, my face, my hair…all changed; but eyes, never. She looked into her own eyes as Colin once did.

She sighed. She got up. She replaced her hairbrush into a little drawer and turned around. So many memories floating around, like little bees buzzing and bustling. Buzz, buzz, they would say, each trying to drown out the other. Funny things, memories. Some are sweet as honey while some sting and some buzz the constant hum of disapproval relentlessly, remorselessly - never resting. She closed her eyes and opened them again. She looked upon the world with familiar eyes. These eyes did not see the world in a long time, not since the days of her youth with Colin Moore, Selina Rhodes and to the days when her two school friends were alive.

_Verity Fall_s she smiled at the thought. The slightest notion of Verity Falls never failed to make her smile. A place of both natural and social splendour. Only the wealthy, and that is to say, the very wealthy could afford to live there. The countryside was breathtaking - lush green hills, the modest woods, and of course, the demure waterfalls - along with the 'good' company was what many an Englishman yearned for. Her family had lived there for three years before she arrived. Constance herself had spent the previous years between France and Yorkshire, being the only child of her parents with any academic potential. When they died she was sent to live and receive an education with her aunt while her siblings were to stay with their rich uncle. The year she arrived was the only year she was to spend there. Not through plan but through circumstance.

Her arrival was met with wonderful excitement. Nobody, only her two friends, had seen her within five years. Speculation arose about what that girl would be like. Many heard that she was beautiful, for she certainly was, but upon seeing her, it was generally agreed that she was overrated by the rumours. She had looks that could be knockout for even the most prudish male when she wore makeup, but she didn't have the mainstream beauty that her sister Edith had. Hers was a more natural magnificence that could only be truly appreciated through a certain type of eye.

Constance herself used to love the attention but now, well, not so much. Indeed, not at all. She looked at the clock that read nine o' clock and it was time she was going.

* * *

The staff of Cackle's Academy were sitting soberly at the table. Imogen was immersed a sports magazine while Davina was watering a few daffodils right before nibbling them. Amelia was sitting in her armchair watching Davina fixedly. It was clear that despite the gay morning, nobody was on top form. Even Davina seemed a little out-of-sorts.

"I'm worried about Constance," Amelia said, finally breaking the silence.

Imogen drew a slow breath as she put down her magazine. She was flicking the top corners of the pages with her index fingers and smiled awkwardly at Amelia. It was not just she who noticed the difference then. Davina too; she looked down awkwardly, spilling a considerable amount of water.

"Do watch what you're doing, Miss Bat," she scolded, shaking her head.

"Have you any idea what is wrong with Constance?" Imogen enquired, "she's not been right for quite some time."

"That's true, Imogen. It is a very old friend of hers, that much I know. But you know Constance, she gives precious little information to go on."

"It's been going on a little bit longer than that," Davina admitted, taking a seat.

"What do you mean by that, Miss Bat?"

"It's ever since Mistress Broomhead made a visit earlier this year. She being Headmistress shook her but her last visit left her very unsettled."

"Indeed," Amelia agreed.

"So what are we going to do about it?" asked Imogen, "surely we are not going to leave her the way she is? I'm not her biggest fan but I do hate to see her quite so miserable."

"Me too," said Davina, glancing fondly at her cupboard.

The said cupboard had been gathering dust. The handles were especially thickly-coated and the gap between the doors had become the home to numerous small spiders.

"I miss her scolding me, y'know," she smiled. "It's getting boring sitting out here with you lot all the time. But I've nothing to do in there now."

"I'm going to have a chat with her," Amelia nodded.

"Are you sure that's wise, Miss Cackle?" asked Imogen, "it's just … well we all know Miss Hardbroom isn't one for talking. Is it not best just to leave her alone?"

"Constance and I have known each other for many years. I think she'll talk to me if I approach her the right way."

"She's never been very happy, has she?" Davina mused, flicking one of the daffodil petals.

The room was silent. Imogen and Amelia looked at Davina with raised eyebrows. She interlocked her fingers and lay them against her chin. Davina may have been scatty and underestimated, but if anything, it gave her a greater chance to see what was going on around her. It was clear Constance was in a constant state of misery - she hid it well - but those that were around her long enough knew. The students thought she was stoic because she was a bitch but the teachers knew otherwise. She had lucid moments - the occasional laugh - the lapse in her steel wall - the very rare moment of excitement and human interaction (hugging Amelia over something as trivial as a basketball game) - but nonetheless, they were there. They could see, Amelia could especially see what was under her crust.

Depression is like a fine flower. The seeds of anguish and despair are planted and it grows and grows and grows until eventually it blossoms into something larger than life. The bees, they suck the life out of you and disperse your misery over different places at different times. Before you know it, the flower has consumed the field they were borne in. Nobody can recognise it for what it once was because what it once was is lost. It has been changed, it has been scarred beyond recognition. And like the grass that grows between the stems of gloom, nobody cares what lies beneath because the flowers consume you. They _become_ you.

The truth about Constance was that her flower was once again in bloom, and it did not take a botanist to notice this. Amelia knew how to gauge Constance's moods. When she smiled, she was normally free from the catacombs of despair and when she was extremely moody and cranky, she was normally just getting ticked off with life - thinking it a tiresome business! But when she went silent - when she never raised her voice, made conversation or even give Davina ammunition to return to her cupboard, she had fallen. Mildred Hubble had even seen something array and she had kept out of trouble. Indeed, something was rotten within Cackle's Academy.

* * *

"Constance, dear?" Amelia rapped on the door gently.

Constance was ready. She looked her usual self, despite her eyes being more blunt than one was used to. She sighed, starting towards the door. Her long, slender digits wrapped lingered the handle before allowing the Headmistress through.

"Yes, Miss Cackle?" Constance enquired.

"Don't be silly dear," she smiled, "call me Amelia."

She sat on the edge of Constance's bed and tapped the seat next to her, urging her deputy to be seated.

"I've noticed a change in you, Constance," she began, "you've not been as well-turned out as usual, you've been surprisingly lenient with Davina and the girls and you've been even quieter than usual, which was something I thought impossible. I'm not going to ask you _if_ anything is that matter, rather, _what_?"

There was a long silence while Constance wrestled with her thoughts. There's nothing like a little self-deliberation to add tension to the air.

"Do you ever have bad dreams, Amelia?" she finally asked.

"Naturally," Amelia replied.

"I mean something a little more serious than Mrs. Cosie closing down for the foreseeable future."

Amelia shuddered.

"And what have these dreams been about?"

"Things that have happened and things that will happen - terrible things."

"Like a prophet?"

"No," Constance sighed.

"Mildred Hubble," she spoke after a few more moments.

"Mildred Hubble," her elder repeated.

"Look after her, Amelia."

Mildred Hubble? Was Mildred Hubble the source of Constance's problems? Of course not! That could not be! What possible problem could Mildred Hubble pose for Constance? Annoyance can silence one for a day but not for weeks on end. Her friend Helen must be the source of her sadness. What else could there have been?

Amelia knew she would hear no more from Constance - to the average eye there seemed to be little difference between quietness and silence, but when one looked closely enough, they were nothing alike. Constance was a quiet woman - despite being a woman of little words, she would and could speak. Though now she was silent - she would not utter a word or a murmur or give a knowing look or any interaction at all. Constance was silent and Amelia knew she had nothing more to say. She could be of no use to her now.

"I'm sorry about your friend," she said softly before leaving.

_Helen_. The funeral. She had almost forgotten. She _would_ go to the funeral. Though her friend was not what was making her feel so brutally downtrodden. Her stomach ached badly - she _needed_ to talk to someone. Though how can one utter words so candid? She wanted to tell her, talk to her but she could not utter a syllable. How could she ever tell her what she wanted to tell her?

"I'm going to die, Amelia."

_**Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this! The Constance/Amelia scene had originally been much nicer, but I ended up losing the last two pages of this right before uploading, so I had to rewrite them. The general format is the same though. I cannot promise a prompt update, for I start university on Monday and it will take me some time to settle down. Also, I want to read & review other fics so I will be dividing my time between reading and writing also. I 'hope' (heavy emphasis on the hope!) to update in about two weeks. If you are interested in reading on (the story *will* take off in the next chapter), then a one word (nay, letter) review would suffice, or even just to follow the story. I will update regardless, but to know that people are interested would really help me (I'm a little nervous about posting this tbh). Anyway, thank you for reading!**_


	2. Ding Dong the Witch is Dead

_**Hello! Thank you for the reviews thus far! Very much appreciated! *hands out cyber cookies and cyber milkshakes***_

**Quick Note: Italic passages within the story, marked by quotation marks " " will represent Constance's narrative as the story unfolds. A voiceover, if you will.**

**Chapter 2:**

**Ding-Dong, The Witch is Dead**

In she looked upon the casket where her old friend lay.

Memories are like wolves - they howl into the night and their echo lives and lives until the morning breaks, and even then, Constance was unable to face them. A very wise woman once told Constance that 'time is a tool best served used, but if things aren't as they should be then they will happen again.' In other words, history repeats itself. Despite Helen being dead, her mind would not leave her memories of Nancy at rest. Nancy was a dear, dear friend - the third of the 'Three Witches' and the eldest of the magical elite. She had died eight summers ago, and like Helen, she fell too far into the debts of madness.

Constance recalled the nights she and Helen sat with Nancy, learning the symptoms of her illness, trying to discern the causes, when they instinctively knew there could only be one cause.

"You three!" she shouted, "You three will be the death of me and you three shall be dead before me!"

_Scarlett Yew-Tree_ she thought. She had not thought about _her _for many years.

They thought it was just a threat. Was Nancy really under her spell or was her madness coincidence? She promised them revenge and death and it happened to Nancy, yet the other two still stood. They put it down to coincidence but their hearts knew better. Six summers later, Helen fell too far. Since the funeral, she had been travelling on the downward spiral and then she fell that summer. Two summers later she was dead. Two is a coincidence but three's a charm … Constance still stood but she was the last woman standing. She was alone. Would she go mad? Would she fall down with illness that night as Helen did, and would she continue to fall? Who would look after her? Who would protect the world from the Mistress of the Darkness? She would be gone and she was all that was stopping her. She would arrive soon - get rid of her when no more questions would be asked, when nothing would be done. She would be seen to treat her through her madness, a form of truce, if you will. After all, it only takes one woman to set the curse and another woman to take advantage. Scarlett Yew-Tree was no longer a threat - it was over - but what about Mistress Broomhead? Why wasn't she at the funeral?

_Mildred Hubble_.

Her thoughts were interrupted. She was the only girl with the power to be next and with the power to help her. She knew nothing, could she really implicate her? She had no choice. If she died then the world would be at the mercy of a certain Mistress Broomhead. She would attain absolute power of magic and the Doctor Foster's Effect. She could not let that happen. Whether it cost her, her life or not, she would have to do something. And she didn't have long.

* * *

Mildred was walking with a few of the first years through the corridor. The sun was setting outside and the windows shone like honey.

"Just through here and if you wait there, Miss Drill will be along in a moment," she announced sweetly as the First Years made their way into a classroom.

Mildred stood by the window and sighed deeply. The sun was setting and the day was coming to an end. The evening was unusually beautiful. She opened up her sketch book and continued a sketch that she had started earlier. The picture was of the same view but the sun and colours had shifted around the sky. She sighed.

"Everything changes so quickly," she moaned.

She was almost finished. She coloured a little bit of orange into the sky and it truly came to life. She focused her attentions on the picture and the branches of the trees and the grass growing out of the gutters began to sway gently in the breeze.

"Goodness," a rapt voice spoke behind her. She turned around and faced Amelia who was watching the picture fixedly.

"Good evening, Miss Cackle," she greeted merrily.

"That truly _is _amazing, Mildred," she gasped, taking a seat next to her. Mildred giggled.

"What is it? Don't want to be seen around your stuffy ole Headmistress?" she chirped.

"It's nothing like that, Miss Cackle. It's just you'd swear you've never seen me do this before."

"Often one likes to look at things through a different pair of eyes," she winked.

"Did you like that cheesecake one I did for you?"

"Cheesecake?" she mused. "Oh, yes!" she added, "looks beautiful," she smiled, "the cheese is so runny. I often have to refrain from trying to eat it," she chuckled.

They were both silent as they gazed upon the beautiful evening.

"Life is so intertwined with nature," Amelia sighed, smiling.

"What do you mean?"

"There is so much in a sunset. The death of an old way, the birth of a beginning to follow."

"That's really deep, Miss."

"What other kind of things do you like to draw, Mildred?"

"Anything I can think of," she replied, "but I have to be really careful, obviously. I once drew a prince with a cave, Miss, and suddenly the dragon was about to kill him. I love this power but it can be kind of dangerous."

"It is an immense power to have, my dear Mildred. Never ever forget what it is you possess. You have the power of life and death in your hands. You have the power to do anything."

"It sounds scary when you put it like that," she chuckled.

"What I really wanted to talk to you about, Mildred, was Constance … I mean, Miss Hardbroom."

"Forgive me if I'm forward, Miss, but what's the matter with her?"

"You think something is wrong?" she replied, surprised.

"I don't know. She's been really quiet lately. I once drew a sketch of her when I was bored in class and it looked so powerful - I was really quite impressed with it. Then I drew one lately and it was so … flat. It's like there was nothing there."

"A dear friend of hers has died, poor thing. She's been to her funeral today, and I dare say it will take her some time to recover. I was thinking of giving Miss Hardbroom some compassionate leave. Let her get her thoughts together. This school will not be the same without her, will it, Mildred?"

"No, Miss."

"Which is why when we organise our substitute teacher, I want you to keep the girls in check. If they ask questions, keep them at peace. Can you do that for me, Mildred?"

"Of course, Miss."

"That's a good girl," she patted her knee before getting up, "I dare say I was wrong about you when we first met," she smiled before leaving.

Mildred sat in silence for a few moments before closing her book.

"Things really do change …" she sighed.

* * *

It was near darkness when Constance arrived back at the Academy. The girls were tucked up in their beds when she arrived, which surprised her greatly, considering it was her turn on dorm duty. The corridors were filled with such silence that their hush was almost personified and present between those walls. The only slight sound was the swish-swashing of the candle flames as she slowly brushed past them. She remained silent and took in her surroundings.

So silent.

She took one last look over the Academy as it may well have been her last look. She became acutely aware of everything she had taken for granted. Silence may often harbour bad thoughts, but silence was her pet companion. The dreary walls, the cold, the non-glassed windows - they were her home.

She came to pass the window where Mildred lay sketching earlier that evening. Nothing remained of the said girl only her sketchbook. 'Mildred Hubble' was written in skilfully-drawn graffiti. The flames drawn above her name flickered lightly. They shone with valour and meaning - deep, deep meaning.

Constance opened the book and browsed through the contents. There were tens of pictures; some of Tabby, some of the school and her three bats. Some were more scenic, taken of various different locations around the Academy and forest grounds. She smirked at the technical-looking pictures, which depicted whether or not Ruby's blueprints would work in reality. She came to find portraits - some of her friends, Maud and Enid, and some of her teachers. She came to some of herself. Mildred had been right before - the first sketch was foreboding and powerful. Constance's eyebrows arched sharply, gracefully overlooking and intimidating those around her - her eyes shone with glassy stillness, silent but dangerous, and her poise radiated sophistication and intimidation.

"Oh," Mildred stuttered nervously, blushing crimson red.

"Mildred," Constance greeted, "what are you doing up after hours?"

"Um …" she began, "well I asked the girls to remain quiet tonight. Just so you could um … rest…"

"And what makes you think that I need rest?" she enquired as she flicked over the page. There was another portrait of her, this one more suggestive. She was flat - numb-looking. The grace and intimidation had disappeared. Mildred had drawn a vessel. She raised an eyebrow - had she been _that_ obvious?

"I heard Miss Cackle say that you were at a funeral today … I'm sorry about your friend…"

"How appropriate …" she sighed, handing her back the sketchbook.

"I think I'll head off to bed now … unless there is anything more I can do …"

Constance looked over her shoulders, behind Mildred and at the walls around her.

"I'd like a word with you, if I may."

"If it's about the pictures, then-"

"It's nothing to do with the pictures," she promised, leaning closer, "something more important than that."

Mildred stood still.

"Well, not here," she snapped, "meet me in my chamber in fifteen minutes."

"Of course, Miss Hardbroom," Mildred almost whispered. There was a seriousness to her elder's eye that frightened her a little.

She started away:

"And Mildred?" she called.

Mildred turned back, stopping dead in her icy steps.

"Ensure nobody sees you."

She nodded, before slowly turning and continuing on her original trek.

Constance watched the young girl make her way.

_What am I doing to her? _her mind wondered.

* * *

Mildred had never seen Constance's room before. None of the pupils had. They may have found secret dungeons, broken into Amelia's charmed safe, but never had the boundaries of Constance's bedroom been crossed.

There was a rumour circulating that once her door had been left ajar. The student, of course, had not the guts to even approach the room but she did see darkness. Lots of darkness.

She stopped at the door, wondering if it was all a dream. Constance having something important to engage with her was unlikely in itself, never mind being invited to her bedroom. The secrecy of the thing made her mind tremble under the coils of thought and curiosity.

She rapped on the door which was instantly opened - it was as if her potion's mistress had been awaiting her arrival fixedly.

"Come in."

The first thing Mildred did was look around. The room was nothing like she expected - then again, how can one's expectations be met if one does not know what to expect? The walls were dark - their colour she could not discern. If dungeon was a colour then that is what it was. There were a few small candles illuminating the area, giving it more of a gentle hue than useful light. Like the students, her window frame was void of any glass to protect those within. Her bed was normal - a double bed, as assigned to staff members (not that it was of any use to them), with black covers and white pillow cases. There was a little cat bed in the corner, with Morgana, a cat with a steelier gaze than a dragon, lying in careful watchfulness. An immaculate litter tray was perched nearby the bed - enough to save Morgana trouble in getting there and distant enough so she would not lie in discomfort.

"What's her name?" Mildred asked, breaking the crushing silence.

"Morgana," Constance replied, allowing her long digits to fall upon the cat's head and stroke her gently. "She is my oldest companion."

"You wanted to speak to me …" Mildred continued unsurely.

"Yes, Mildred. Do take a seat."

Mildred looked around. _No chair_, only for the one Constance was sitting on and she certainly was not going to wrestle her for it.

"The corner of the bed will do. For goodness sake girl, do use your initiative!"

Mildred complied. Constance pushed her seat closer to the bed and she held a candle between them.

"I am going to ask you a favour."

"Anything, Miss."

"I would like to make clear that you do not have to comply and help me. You would be useful to me, but I shall not implicate you in my problems unless you are quite willing to consent with your involvement. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Miss Hardbroom."

"Firstly I think I should tell you a story. You heard a friend of mine died?"

She nodded.

"She was one of two very close friends. The other died eight years ago. I want to tell you the story of how their demise came to be, and then you may decide if you wish to help me."

"I am going to help you anyway, Miss Hardbroom-"

"One way in which you irritate me _very much_, Mildred Hubble, is your impetuousness. Do not jump into anything without knowing full well into what it is you are involving yourself in."

"It all started when I was attending Witch Academy when I was eleven. I made two friends, Helen and Nancy. Helen, the youngest, I met first. She was a very conscientious young woman. She was allowed to start second-level education so early as she was so intensely intelligent. She was two to three years younger than most of the first years, so Nancy and I always took care of her. Nancy, my mentor, if you will, was in fourth year when I joined. She was three years older than I was. Are you with me so far, Mildred?"

"Yes, Miss Hardbroom."

"Good. Well, it was a generally known fact that …

* * *

_**FLASHBACK:**_

"Scarlett Yew-Tree terrorises every girl that walks through them 'alls!" exclaimed Lyvia Whitehead, a scruffy little first year with such bushy hair as earned her the name 'Bushy the Kangaroo'.

* * *

_**REAL TIME:**_

"Who's Scarlett Yew-Tree?" Mildred enquired.

"My very first enemy, Mildred. Truly one of the most vile women I have ever met."

"I thought Mistress Broomhead was your arch-enemy?"

"Mildred, as you walk through life, you will learn that you make more than one enemy during your path. While Mistress Broomhead may be my chief enemy, Scarlett Yew-Tree truly is my nemesis. Hatred of one doesn't make one an enemy, Mildred, circumstances do. You will understand as I tell you more. You understand?"

She nodded.

"Very well, then. As I was saying …

* * *

_**FLASHBACK:**_

"What's the matter with you, Constance?" she barked at the new little girl who was seated at the outermost edge of the table.

"_I had joined school late owing to the death of my parents in the Summer holidays of my transition from Primary to Secondary Witchcraft education. My family and I were very close, so at the time, being in a new environment and away from them all, I found it very difficult to make myself known to my peers."_

The pale little thing shook her head and hugged herself before bowing her head and refraining from any eye-contact.

"Nothing," she replied softly.

"Then what are you doing over there? Come sit with us, we need homework help, yeah?"

Her friends nodded in agreement. Constance, after bracing herself, took a deep inhalation of breath and lunged towards the table.

"What are you so quiet about?" Lyvia enquired, "Yew-Tree get her hands on ya?"

"Who is Miss Yew-Tree?"

"You don't know Miss Yew-Tree?!" one of the other girls exclaimed.

"She's horrible!" cried one of the smaller first years.

"Why? What did she do?" asked the naïve stranger.

"She 'its girls, so she does," asserted Lyvia.

"And once, she threw a girl into a bath of freezing water, just because she was late for class," Victoria informed her.

"And if you fink that's bad," cut in Lyvia, "she once made a girl frow a stray kitten that she started looking after into the fire in the shed."

"What?!" exclaimed Constance, "surely that's not true."

"Well …" Victoria began.

"Of course it's true!" took over Lyvia again, "she always 'its us so I wouldn't be surprised if she frew a cat into the fire. She's evil."

"Goodness," Constance muttered.

"Anyway, Hardbroom. We 'ear you is good with your potions so why don't you give us an 'and, yeah?"

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Yew-Tree wants us to make a potion what will bring this plant back to life," she informed her, pointing at a withered and exhausted-looking plant.

"The elixir of life?!" Constance gasped, "but that isn't even sixth year stuff!"

"That's what she does," Victoria sighed, "so when we can't do it, she gives us detention."

"And you do not want detention with 'er!" Lyvia exclaimed.

"So we could really do with your help on this one," Victoria smiled.

Constance sighed thoughtfully, overlooking their ingredients.

"Where did you get those ingredients?" she asked.

"She gave us them on a list," Lyvia replied, handing Constance the said list.

"This is wrong," was her immediate reply.

They all turned and faced her sharply, now rapt in her every word.

"What you mean, wrong?" Lyvia snapped, "you telling us the teacher could get it wrong?"

"No, I'm telling you that this is a trick. She's trying to trick you. You see, the pond slime _should_ be fermented and you're missing ear of bat. Also, I'm nearly positive that you need some crushed Yew Tree twigs."

"Whoa," a chorus of girls uttered hypnotically.

"Are you sure?" asked a doubtful Victoria.

"Yes," gulped Constance, "very sure."

"Alright," sighed Lyvia, "but if you're wrong," she started.

"I'm not wrong," Constance assured them, a wry smile consuming her lips. She suddenly felt confident - wanted - these girls were impressed with her.

* * *

_**REAL TIME:**_

"It was that which set things in motion. You see, Mildred, Scarlett Yew-Tree did give out detentions for changing elements of her list, but she was also very impressed with me for both noticing the deficiencies and having the ability to make the potion. She took a special interest in me from that day forward."

"But how would that make her an enemy, Miss Hardbroom?"

"She fooled me. I thought she was impressed with me - took a shine to me. I was friends with Lyvia, Victoria and another few girls but we grew apart. They did not like the … attention I was receiving. Helen was the only girl to stand by me - be my friend. She had power too, Mildred - we could see Scarlet Yew-Tree for what she really was. When I later befriended Nancy, she could see it all too. That is why she cursed us."

"You mean to say that Scarlett Yew-Tree is the reason your friend …?"

"Yes. The curse was that, one by one, we would go insane, which would lead to our eventual demises. On the night of each funeral, the next would lose her mind. When Nancy lost her mind, well, we weren't sure if it was the curse or coincidence. On the night of her funeral, Helen fell ill and she was never the same again. I'm the last one, Mildred, and I haven't got much time. That is why I need your help."

"Anything, Miss Hardbroom."

"Mildred, Scarlett Yew-Tree was supposed to have been killed. _We _killed her. Her curse should have died with her body. Even if death only lasts a millisecond, the curse is revoked - it dies. Even if she came back, it would make no difference. The fact that it's still in practice concerns me deeply."

"She didn't die?"

"Apparently not. Mildred, before the clock strikes midnight, I am destined to be next. I need your power."

"My power?"

"If you can transform me into a drawing - into a drawing of my past, it will give me time to figure out how to kill her properly. If I live in my past, I cannot grow old in the present."

"Of course I'll do that."

"There is a catch, Mildred. As I said, we all have more than one enemy. Scarlett Yew-Tree wanted power so nobody was a threat. I, Nancy and Helen were threats to her so she cursed us. Heckety Broomhead, who I wouldn't meet until Witch Training College, wanted to bypass the Doctor Foster's Effect. She wanted absolute power. She wanted _mine_ and she was willing to go to any lengths to get it. Mildred, she knows everything of my past - she will be coming to Cackle's in an attempt to get that power. If she finds out that you know anything-"

"She won't, Miss Hardbroom. I'll make sure of it."

"I really don't think you know how dangerous that woman is," Constance said with a heart-wrenching tremble in her voice.

"Like I said, I'll make sure that she doesn't find out. I'm only Mildred Hubble," she smirked, "she'd never suspect me."

"Very well," Constance sighed. "Miss Cackle has urged me to take compassionate leave, and after appropriate argument, I accepted her offer. She thinks I am leaving tonight, so tell no one of our conversation."

"I won't."

"Mildred, you must promise me that if Mistress Broomhead becomes a danger in my absence, you are to bring me back at once. Curse or no curse, I will not allow her put the academy at jeopardy."

"But you'd die."

"Mildred," Constance said sternly.

"Fine," she sighed glumly.

"Well I suggest that we get this business over with quickly," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, almost sounding like her usual self, handing Mildred a piece of paper, with a building (presumably a school) drawn onto it.

"Okay," she gulped, stretching out the sheet in her hand.

"Good luck, Miss," Mildred smiled, though her eyes betrayed her feelings miserably.

"Thank you, Mildred Hubble," Constance said cooly, smiling a very miniscule smile before being absorbed onto the page.

"Good luck," Mildred whispered softly, looking around the room of a woman which no longer technically existed - a woman who may never exist again if the plan failed to work.

Mildred sighed, opening her sketch book and placing the new picture inside safely. She stood up, taking a deep breath, bracing herself for the big changes that were to come within Cackle's Academy.

_**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Reviews would be very much appreciated, if you would be so kind as to give you time! Thank you for reading! xXx**_


	3. The Clock Strikes

_**Thank you so much to everyone who as reviewed/favourited/followed thus far! I **__**really**__** appreciate it! Hope you enjoy this next chappie. =) p.s. If I didn't reply to your previous reviews, I apologise and would like to thank you all here.**_

**As regards Constance in the past: Her modern mind sits in her body; she can see and feel things that happen, but she cannot change anything that would directly effect a human force - inanimate, maybe, depending, but nothing that could cause significant change. Essentially, all she can do is sit and watch.**

**Chapter 3:**

**The Clock Strikes**

_Tick … tock … tick … tock …_

She awoke in a world that felt very different, yet very familiar. She awoke in a world where the good times were past and the bad had yet to come. She awoke in times of revolution and change, where the world of magic was trembling on its feet in fear of something terrible, and in the hopes of something wonderful. Magic had existed for many years - even Methuselah was born when magic was rampant around the world. And for every ring that Methuselah had grown, and for every grain of wood that he shed, there was a Witch or a Wizard out there who wanted to seize the magical world into their hands and mould it into whatever they wished.

Up until recent years, magic was something whose use was hidden. It was preserved for the traditionalist Witches - those who wished to collect their own herbs and conjure their own spells and remedies. Spells and potions were oral traditions, and it was only the truest Witch could be the most learned. Though those were the days before the burnings; by Constance's youth, things had changed.

Magic had become accessible to anybody born into a heritage of Witchcraft. Even a mortal could cast a spell, the way they were cast nowadays, but it was the power that they lacked. You had families like the Hallows, whose Witchcraft traditions date back to the years when Methuselah was still a seedling. Then you had Witches like the Nightshades, well-respected for their abilities, but were the gypsies of the magical world. They did not have much of a history behind them, only indulging in the art when a Witch was the 'cool thing to be' in the days of the Salem burnings.

This establishment only attempted to focus upon the former type of Witch. The Headmistress, Miss Scarlett Yew-Tree, was one of those ladies who wanted 'pure' Witches, as opposed to families who only dabbed in the art in recent years.

"To be a Witch," she used to say, "one has to have magical history, magical ability and magical soul." Every element of your being had to be dripping with magic, and those who failed to live up to her expectations were dumped and left as feed for the maggots. She met very little Witches who met her criteria, for there were few, but she crushed those whom she felt had no potential, and allowed those with power, be it little and small, but nonetheless, power, to prosper.

She did not like spells with words. A magical spell was a command to the forces around one - forcing a change, not willing it. Scarlett Yew-Tree hated such spells - her magic was used without words.

"In order for it to be magic, it must change because you want it to," she often told Constance throughout her time in her Secondary Witchcraft Education.

These beliefs were everything that she stood for, and it was something that she never denied.

_Tick … tock … tick … tock … _

Her eyes flickered open and shut - they opened again - they shut in fear of her life. They opened and the fusion of colours and blurriness cleared into a clarity of vision once more. She could not believe she was _there_ again.

She recalled Cackle's once more - it was warmer than this place, the colours more inviting. Like Cackle's, this place had no windows; unlike Cackle's it had no shutters. In Cackle's she was able to control the darkness and the light - she could let as much or as little in as she wished. There was protection from the darkness - she could embrace it if she wanted but most of the time she just ignored it. It was there but she had a choice. _Choices_ … a word she would not know for a long time to come. Choices, pitiful choices. Choices, choices, choices. Oh, dear! They were all gone!

Her favourite thing about Cackle's was that it had no clocks. Heckety Broomhead was known for her obsession with time - Scarlett Yew-Tree was renowned for her preoccupation with efficiency. She recalled Witch-Training College - there were clocks _everywhere_. A chorus of piercing tick tocking, never stopping - relentless, remorseless came to be every second. It surprised her to recall that the clock was her friend in her Secondary Witchcraft education. She often felt as if time never progressed - the clock reminded her that it actually did. But she had enough.

_Tick __…__ tock __…__ tick __…__ tock. _

Furious was her brain - it was burning with raging precision. Furious were her eyes - her eyes ticked to the tock. Furious was her heart - it ticked and tocked like a ticking time-bomb.

In a fusion of hate and rage … and hate and rage …. and fear and despair and everything that lies between - misery, emptiness, wrathful tears, she caught the clock in her cold, quivering hand and flung it again and again in her mind, but only once would do in reality as it was in more pieces than her shattered and broken heart on the floor.

"Constance?" came a voice from outside.

_That voice_. Lyvia Whitehead!

Constance got up slowly from her bed and opened the door. She looked a right mess! Her hair was similar to a ball of knitting wool after being in the paws of a cat - bits sticking out _everywhere_. She did not care! She could not care, for Lyvia Whitehead was standing in front of her! Captured were her days of innocence and ignorance, captivation and wonderment, contentment and belonging in this one little girl. Lyvia Whitehead was one of many a stepping stone in Constance's memory - memories of Lyvia were telling of a time when her life seemed hopeful, joyous, when ignorance was bliss.

And she could not even give her a hug.

"What is it?" asked an irritated Constance.

"Potions wiv Yew-Tree!"

Constance turned to look at her clock which was now lying on the floor. Though she never forgot the time in her mind; she had never really forgotten anything of that morning.

"We don't have potions until eleven."

"We have potions at half-ten, dim-wit," she slapped her arm, "she always tells us a time half an hour past so we'll be late. C'mon, hurry up!"

While she dressed and while she cleaned, she could not stop thinking about the infamous Scarlett Yew-Tree. Constance had heard many stories about her beating students, burning animals, setting up schemes to humiliate her pupils. Could one person really be responsible for _so _much? Could one person really have that much evil within them? She found it very difficult to believe. Constance was never like other girls - she did not exaggerate; seeing was believing in her eyes. Maybe Scarlett Yew-Tree was strict but maybe it was for the good of the girls. It was and still is a well-known fact that the best teachers are often the most hated. She would see Scarlett Yew-Tree for herself.

After fixing her clock, which then read twenty-five to eleven, she scurried with Lyvia to her potions lesson as quickly as her little legs would allow her. The whole class was seated, rapt by their teacher, who was in the middle of delivering some lecture.

She did not speak to her. She did not look at her. It seemed like she did not notice her. Constance quietly excused herself through the third row of seats and took her seat on the very inside, next to the damp-damp walls.

So _this _was the infamous Miss Yew-Tree? She did not look out of the ordinary. She did admit to herself that in looking at her, she understood the potential that existed to fear her. Everything about her body suggested discipline. She certainly grew efficiently, for she was alarmingly tall, and she ate what she needed to - nothing more, nothing less - for she was very, very thin and her hair was tied back tightly and worn in a bun. Her clothes were like the rest of her - nothing more than what was needed. She wore neutral colours - a sort of light green, tweed-like outfit, and they fitted her perfectly. The skin of her face was tight, aging but tight - she looked younger than her years, and her lips were thin and emotionless. And _those eyes_. One could say 'even an empty glass of water looked more full than she was' but there was never any water in this glass. Her eyes were grey and empty, grave and suspicious. It frightened Constance as she sat there how obviously the evil of their tormentor lingered before them. What frightened her more was that none of the girls sitting there, including the vessel she was living in, knew what was to come.

She watched her eyes as they scanned the entire classroom - she was rapt by her eyes even then, despite being blithely unaware of the evil that they possessed. She knew then they seemed detached - yes, detached was the word - she looked like she was living in a whole other world. It was like her soul was disengaged from her body…

It was after those few moments that Constance began to grow wary of her. The way she looked around the class - it was not evil but it was unusual. It was like she was looking for _something. _As her eyes looked deep within every girl's soul, they finally locked onto Constance. The meek little girl looked up gingerly, her arms folded tightly to her chest. The pounding of her heart made it difficult to breathe, and it was one of those moments in life when you wonder if you were better off dead than live with that sheer burning dread in your heart. She looked at the table again, admiring the designs of the wood; the way the darker strands coiled around each other like serpents. How she wished to fall between those cracks now!

"Constance," she finally called.

Her voice hit her like a thousand million little needles; she could feel her stare and her voice all over her, tingling with unforgettable dread. And like the dreaded thoughts of every child all over the world, she thought, _'__I__'__m in trouble.__'_

She did not answer, she just looked up, avoiding her eyes like prude avoids drink - for anything could happen. _'__She is going to kill me,__'_she thought.

"Answer me, girl!" her shrill tone shook the room. Constance tensed up, folding her arms into herself so hard that her breathing became even more laboured.

"Y … yes … Mi … M … Miss Yew-Tree?"

She looked right at her - dare she not? Her eyes almost stung from the pent-up tension in the air. They watched each other for a few moments, like a Mexican standoff. Neither moved, neither spoke - just observed. When seconds felt like hours and hours felt like an infinice of exhaustion and terror, she spoke:

"I hear you were helping the other girls with their homework," she finally announced.

"Yes, Miss Yew-Tree."

"And what have you got to say for yourself?"

"… I'm sorry? …"

"And why should you be sorry?!" she exclaimed, smiling a smile of gentle amusement.

"I…" began Constance.

"It was a test, young girl, a mere test. I wanted to see how accomplished this class was, and I was very surprised to find that they all had the potion correctly made. When I made enquiries, I learned that it was you who was their source of wisdom. Who taught you to make that potion?"

"I taught myself, Miss Yew-Tree. I mean, well, I read a lot … I just remembered."

"So you're good at making potions?"

"Thank you."

"So you agree that you're good?"

"Well, I enjoy it. I wouldn't say … good."

"So you're an underachiever? I have no room for underachievers in this class."

"Well I like to think that I am able for my age, Miss."

"Hmmm…" Scarlett Yew-Tree nodded with a raised eyebrow. "So what else are you good at?"

"Um…"

"What else do you _like_, then?" she added with a sense of disdainful mockery.

"_Magic_. Potions are my favourite. I like spells too - charms especially.

"Do you know the spell that will bring this frog back to life?"

She held up the cadaver of a frog which was spread on his back on a small silver tray.

"I don't think I could do that."

"Try it. You can make the potion so you know the words. Try it."

Something in that tone, something in that look told her that if she did not try to bring him back, she would quickly be joining him. Constance nodded once and she slowly stood up. The entire class were immersed with her every move.

"She's gonna kill 'er!" she heard Lyvia Whitehead exclaim to the girl next to her. Constance snapped her head around.

"Well thank you very much, Lyvia!" she snapped in the same hushed whisper.

"Constance," Miss Yew-Tree warned.

She nodded at her again and inhaled deeply, flexing and stretching her slender, quivering digits.

"Good luck," a girl whispered behind her. Constance was too afraid to portray distraction again.

"Alvricks orcus, transformamorpheus, Excitate vos e somno et prosperabitur hinc foras," she mouthed as a golden glow began to radiate from her fingers. Like a cloud, it floated up through the classroom like a graceful ballet dancer. Upon forming a shroud around the frog, sparks, like shooting stars shot into him and the mist disappeared.

They waited …

They watched …

And nothing …

"I'm sorry," she sighed glumly.

"Oh well," sighed Miss Yew-Tree, "I suppose it was too much to expect from _you_. I will be seeing you after class about your lateness," she informed her as she turned around and had the writing on the board disappear in a puff of smoke, amazing every girl that was in the room.

"But the timetable said eleven …"

The girls gasped and Yew-Tree swung around, with veins the size of limbs sticking out of her neck.

_Tick … tock … tick … tock …_

"Excuse me?"

"I thought class wasn't supposed to start until eleven?"

She was about to launch into an attack when she took a deep inhalation of breath and composed herself. She kept her outer frame at bay but _those eyes_. If looks could kill she would have been served for lunch the next day. Constance could almost see, heck! she could feel the anger growing within her - from her toes, through her skinny ankles, up her long arms and eventually into those reddening eyes. Her face was pale and composed; she was frighteningly stoic, but those eyes. She could almost see a fire in them.

There was a croaking sound. All eyes locked onto the source - the frog was moving slowly - firstly a twitch of his toes, then a leg, and then a:

"Ribbit!"

The entire class chuckled a little.

"Quiet!" Scarlett bellowed, as she took a closer look at the frog.

"Indeed, it seems your spell has worked, Constance."

"Well done!" the same hushed voice whispered from behind her. She turned to see a girl smaller than the rest. She had a younger face, messy fair hair and a smile that an angel would envy. Her emerald-green eyes reflected the morning sunshine and smiled yet more than her lips.

"Thank you," Constance mouthed back, unable to hide a satisfied smile.

The class continued as normal, nothing untoward. Constance's success was quickly forgotten and they began by learning how to make an invisibility potion. The formidable Scarlett Yew-Tree paced behind the girls as they followed the ingredients of their potions book rigidly; except for Constance, that is, who changed one or two little things that she had read elsewhere, thinking those combinations successful.

She did not dislike Scarlett Yew-Tree, but she certainly was wary of her. Then again, one is always wary of a formidable teacher until one gets to know the said teacher better.

She could not divert her attention from the frog that lay breathing shallowly on the tray. Would Miss Yew-Tree see that he was looked after? Would she even feed him? Heck, might she kill him? She looked into the frog's eyes and a sullen guilt befell her - the frog did not know the situation he was in or what was in store for him. Constance had always been a lover of animals, and she could not bare to see one suffer. His eyes were wide - he looked frightened, lost. Constance knew how that felt - she felt the very same dread on her very fist day, walking to her very first class with Miss Yew-Tree only that morning. She was not going to let him die.

Constance glanced around the room and Miss Yew-Tree was too close by to even think of making a move. If her heart beat painfully hard now, just wait until Yew-Tree held it in her hand. She needed to steal a few moments - it would not take long. She knew in her heart that if she left the frog there, he would be dead before dinner (and if the rumours of Miss Yew-Tree held any truth, he would be _served_ for dinner). She had her potion ready and she had her plan formed - when Yew-Tree was distracted, she would take her potion, steal her way up to the frog, put a few drops on the jar and skuttle back to her seat while the effects would just begin to wear off.

"Don't drink that, silly girl!" she heard her scream.

A girl drank a potion differently coloured to the rest.

"Ugh - ugh - ugh - ugh - ugh - ugh!" she coughed, her hand seizing her neck and almost doubling over.

"You there, girl! Get me that potion!" she pointed, wishing any of the invisible lot to do as she bid.

"You stupid, stupid girl!"

She was distracted. Constance shot a glance over to the jar. She had to go now or it was over. Yew-Tree had her back turned. She looked around for a means of getting the potion onto the frog. She could find nothing. Frantic, frantic, frantic was her search. She could not find a dropper! She tossed the contents of her table. Things spewing onto the floor, and she still could not find what she was looking for. She turned to the girl behind her - the one with the angelic face:

"Is this what you're looking for?" she smiled, producing a dropper.

"How did you know?"

"Not now, quick while she's looking that way," the girl informed her.

Constance took it in her hand as she sipped the potion.

When most were invisible, Constance in her unseen form snuck up to the jar with the frog and she applied a few drops to his back, and then the jar. Drat! She could be seen! Her hands became like a translucent mist, with specks of beige taking form. Once he was invisible, she quickly made her way back to her seat.

The frog was fine. And she was fine. It was over.

"I will be holding detention tonight, girls, for all of you. You might be more careful as to stick with the ingredients I assign you next time. Class dismissed. Constance, a word …"

"You're dead, Constance!" Lyvia teased warmly as she jaunted towards her exit.

"Where did the frog go?" one of the girls asked. Miss Yew-Tree whooshed around and lay her eyes upon an empty jar. Nothing.

_Damn it!_

"Constance, it seems you put too much life back into that frog, for it seems he has escaped."

A few of the girls smirked as they left.

Constance watched each girl as if they were stepping stones; each one gone was closer to death. One by one, they piled out, one by one, they continued to slow down, until eventually, they were gone.

The room was filled with a killer silence. She could hear the clock on the wall - she could hear her teacher breathing shallow breaths.

"I am sorry for being late, Miss Yew-Tree," Constance began, "I was unaware that classes started at half-past. I-"

"No need to be talking about that, Constance. I have noticed that you are thriving in academia. Straight A's across the board in your Primary Education, am I correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I am very disappointed," was all she had to add.

Constance nodded initially, then narrowed her eyes. _Wait, what?_

"I expect you wonder why. Schools love straight-A students but not here, Constance. You may be able to cast spells advanced for you age, but it is the very casting of spells that I distaste. A real Witch doesn't need to cast spells. Even a mortal can cast a spell, for goodness sake. I do not want to see anymore of it from you."

"No more … no more _casting spells_?"

"That is correct. Dismissed."

"But Miss Yew-Tree?"

"I said … dismissed …" she repeated.

She knew not to argue this time. What was the point?

"Yes, Miss Yew-Tree," she added glumly, casting her eyes to the floor and leaving slowly.

The woman was an enigma. That was what Constance concluded from their first meeting. She was not violent during the entire lesson, but yet she was someone who managed to instil fear in all those around her. She need not look at one to fill their hearts with dread, just be there. And be there she would.

In fact, she would never go away …

* * *

"Mildred!" Maud called for the sixth time, pounding on her door relentlessly.

Mildred had not slept much that night - she could not stop thinking and worrying about Constance. Her life did not lie in her hands, but it was in her sketchbook, which we all may agree, is just as bad.

"Mildred!" Maud called again, growing more irritated.

The messy Mildred slumped out of bed and opened the door.

"What?" she snapped, irate.

"You're late," she snapped.

"Late?" Mildred mumbled.

"Potions next class," she said, "you already missed P.E."

"Oh, God."

"She only let you off because we told her you were doing Head Girl business. This really isn't on, Mildred."

"Oh, just drop it, Maud. I was really busy last night and I'm exhausted. I could sleep for a week."

"We have our new potion's teacher today, and I'm sure even the Head Girl can't get away with making a bad impression."

"I think we've all made quite an impression with her already," Mildred mused.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Sorry, just thinking of something else."

"Alright," Maud shrugged, "don't be late," she added, leaving Mildred to herself.

She _was _late, which was certainly less than ideal. Their new tormentor was already stood in front of the class, delivering an irate lecture. Mildred tried to skulk in, but a wry grin consumed Heckety's lips - her eyes locked onto the Head Girl fixedly.

"Ah, Mildred Hubble," she grinned.

"Good morning, Mistress Broomhead," Mildred greeted, nodding politely.

"You are late, Mildred."

"I do apologise, Mistress Broomhead, but I-"

"Lark … lark … lark … Mildred Hubble, is what you speak. I do not want to hear anymore of it from you. You are wasting valuable tyme. Now, you will attend detention with me later, as punishment for your tardiness. Has Miss Hardbroom taught none of you that first impressions are the most important?"

"Yes, Mistress Broomhead," the girls chorused.

"Well sit down then, you silly girl!" she shrieked, causing Mildred to trip over herself on her way to her seat.

"From now on, things are going to change around here. Clocks will be put up all over the school again, and we will run just like clockwork. I want to know where everybody is at every given moment, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mistress Broomhead."

"I thought Miss Cackle didn't agree with clocks?" questioned Ethel, in so sycophantic a fashion as it could not rile the monster.

"I managed to get Miss Cackle into my ways of thinking. Now, then …" she began as she launched into the lesson of the day.

Though Mildred heard none of what was said in that lesson, for her mind began to wonder. What exactly did Mistress Broomhead have to do with what was happening with Constance? Why was she there? What on earth would happen if she found out the truth?

The large clock on the wall drove her head insane.

_Tick … tock … tick … tock …_

The clock teased like a ticking time bomb.

_Tick … tock … tick … tock …_

Each piercing movement of the hand crushed her mind and her spirit. Time was ticking and she knew something big was going to happen. And it was only a matter of time …

_Tick … tock … tick … tock … tick … TOCK!_

The clock struck twelve and the bell rang. It had begun.

_Tick … tock … tick … tock …_

_**The next chapter will be longer than this, and hopefully not far away. Cheers!**_


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